't LIBHARY OF C>».\G1IESS. t 

I 'T^.y^ 1/63 ^ I 

|UNIT'ED STATUS OF AMIiRICA,* 



Ilagjjii^ §la<)j)0mi 



i) 






ip\h JPlflS^flms 




BY 



./^ 



TYUo. Wm) W. (S. |aoth. 




PHILADELPHIA. 
.1. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

J 8 65. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, 

By J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern 
District of Pcnnsj'lvania. 



C{0nti|ittJ). 





Paoe 


The Angel Post 


9 


The Echo of the Alps 


10 


Forever Thine ...... 


. 12 


At the Golden Gate 


14 


The Pilgrim's Pillow 


. 15 


Coming, Love ...... 


17 


0, Annie May 


. 18 


The dear old Robin Red-breast 


19 


A Little Blossom 


. 22 


A Mountain Monument .... 


25 


The Beautiful Gem on the Way 


. 29 


The Volunteer's Vision .... 


30 


I shall be with Thee 


. 32 


The Broken Band . . . 


34 


Willie Brown 


. 37 


Poems Unwritten 


39 


Send me some Little Token .... 


. 40 


The Western Woods 


41 


1* (V 


) 



CONTENTS. 



Page 



" While God He leaves me Reason, God He will 
leave me Jim " . 

The Western Volunteer 

A Kingly Heritage 

We Met and Parted . 

Beat to her Pulses Sweet 

Eva . 

Too Late 

Lulu Bell . 

Bella Dowe . 

Sweet Bessie Gray 

Heart Breathings . 

Good Night 

Tossed upon Life's Heaving Ocean 

I will not say Good-bye 

The Alpine Lovers 

I'm Dying, Comrade . 

The Lord will Make it Good 

I saw Thee from Afar 

Our Little Bird of Paradise 

To William Cullen Bryant, on his Seventieth Birth- 
day 

Angels ! Lead Her Lightly 

The Old Year . 

The New Year 

Our Souls leap over the Years 

Thine at Last 

Allie Grey .... 



CONTENTS. 



Vll 



The Swiss Peasant Woman's Offering to the Sanitary 
Fair . 



Jack and Jim, Comrades, who 

Fort Fisher 
Good Friday 
The Dead Boy 
The Twin Baby Sleepers 
" It might have been " . 
Song of the Rhine 
Let the Angels be my Guide 



fell 



at the Battle of 



Page 



94 
99 
100 
102 
103 
104 
105 




liagsii^ gksjjjjms. 



J HAVE nothing to say to you, dearest 
Nothing that I can write, 
For all the word that I had to send, 
I sent by the Post to-night. 

Not in the form of a letter, 

With mark and stamp and seal, 

Did I trust the tender message 
That my soul had to reveal. 



Not in a bunch of blossoms, 
Not in a sweet bouquet, 

Did I hide the beautiful meaning. 
Of the words I dared not say. 



(9) 



10 THE ECHO OF THE ALPS. 

But I sent the sweet lieart-music 
No mortal on Earth ere wrote, 

What need that the soul's soft melodies 
Be written down by note ? 



So I've nothing to say to you, dearest, 
But to send you my love at most. 

And the news of my heart that I cannot write, 
I send by the Angel-Post. 



W\\^ €d\o of tlt([ %\p. 

MY heart is wandering to the West, 
With swift and noiseless flight, 
To seek its eagle in his nest, 
And pluck a feather from his breast 

Beneath the wings of night — 
A feather from his beating breast 

That shall my song indite, 
A feather from his wounded breast 
With which my soul may write. 

Hush ! for I feel a flutter — 
As if my pen possessed 

The wizard power to utter 

The thoughts within my breast. 



THE ECHO OF THE ALPS. 11 

I soar above the glaciers' gleam, 

I am the night-bird's guest, 
I fly with him o'er storm and stream, 
And never pause, and dream my dream, 

And seek my ark of rest. 

Thou art where flowery prairies roll, 

But thy heart is on the wing. 
And the mellow music of thy soul 

Gives answer as I sing. 
Thou hast called the whirlwind for a guide 

Across the sounding sea, 
And the spirit of the wind replied 

That his rushino; wiuo;s were free. 

I viewed thee from the Alpine height 

In the chamois' agile bound. 
And felt thee in the lark's delight. 

And in the torrent's sound. 
I heard thee in the tempest's tone, 

And in the rippling rills, 
I saw thee in the woodlands lone. 

And called thee from the hills. 

And the very heavens resounded 

With the music of thy name. 
And the listening Alps rebounded 

In fiery floods of flame. 



12 FOREVER THINE. 

And the sj^irit of tlie Alps replied, 
That he felt thy dauntless soul 

In the fearless avalanche's slide, 
And in the thunder's roll. 

He told me that thy spirit's home 
Was on his glancing towers, 

And in his torrent's sparkling foam, 
And in the Alpine flowers. 

And a voice beyond the golden stars 
Proclaimed thy dwelling there — 

I hold thee in my prison bars, 
Yet thou art everywhere. 



FOREVER thine!'' 0, simple words! 
Ye lift my soul on charmed wings, 
And waken all its silent birds, 

That have not sung so many springs. 

Those simple words, " forever thine" — 
A letter's sweet and lingering close, 

With deep and double under-line, 

Stained with the soft leaves of a rose. 



FOREVER THINE. 13 

'Tis many months, and may be, years. 
Since the dear letter's words were penned ; 

I've read them through so many tears, 
I scarce can read them more, dear friend. 

And yet the tears are not of pain, 

Nor all of joy, for while I weep 
I read "forever thine'' again, 

And dream — forever mine — in sleep. 

I know not why I inly sing 

At those sweet words, "forever thine" — 
As if the spirit of the spring 

Had brought them meaning more divine. 

This morning, as T read them o'er, 

The tear-stained letters seemed to shine ! 

And one who was of earth no more 
Retraced the dear " forever thine." 



14 AT THE GOLDEN GATE. 



%{ till! ^Mtn ^Viit 

" r\ DON'T you remember" the corn, Bell Blair ! 

\J That waved in the Autumn breeze, 
Like the peaceful flow of a mother's prayer. 

Or the swell of the singing seas? 
And how, when the harvest time came on, 

We hid in its golden sheaves 
To watch for the coming of gentle John, 

From under the low barn eaves? 

I am not ashamed that I loved John Dean, 

For his heart was pure and true, 
Though the flowers he culled in the spring-time 
green 

Were always given to you. 
And you crushed them under your feet, Bell Blair ! 

As he lovingly turned away; 
But I gathered them up to my heart, and there 

They are all a-bloom to-day. 

Ah, well I remember the roses, born 
With his beautiful love for thee — 

How he freed their stems of the faintest thorn, 
And the briers were given to me. 



THE pilgrim's PILLOW. 15 

They are all I shall ever ask, Bell Blair ! 

But I know my brier will bloom 
To a fragrant flower for my soul to wear, 

For I smell its rich perfume. 

Sometimes, when the shadowy mist uncurls 

From the path my soul will tread. 
And the rose unfolds mid the eddying whirls 

Of the snow around my head. 
And now, when the harvest time comes on 

In heaven, I shall gladly wait. 
And watch for the coming of angel John, 

At the beautiful golden gate. 



PITY me, loving Lord ! 
Thou, who on Earth hadst not a place of rest, 
The sparrow has his nest, 
And I — I have Thy Word. 

In the world's wilderness alone I stand, 

Yet not alone, God ! 
I walk beneath the shelter of Thy hand, 

And kiss Thy chastening rod. 



16 THE pilgrim's PILLOW. 

I seek among the brambles for a spot 

Whereon to lay my aching heart and head 

But find no place, yet I have not forgot, 
How Thy beloved are led. 

I know that in the world's deep wilderness, 
The crystal waters of Thy mercies flow, 

But we are blinded by our small distress, 
And think too seldom on Thy sacred woe. 

I sought a downy spot, but there was none. 
Save in the fragrant bloom of thistle-down, 

My softest pillow is a mossy stone — 

Thistles were better than my Saviour's crown. 

Unbidden tears come welling to my eyes, 
And yet I know He watched me while I slept ; 

The little larks with sweetest prayers arise. 
And I remember that my Jesus wept ! 

It was not Want, nor simple suffering. 

Nor, that the brambles wounded by the way, 
That caused the sorrow of the Shepherd King — 

His lambkins went astray. 

It matters little, if the weary way 

Be long or short, or flowery, straight or steep. 

For well I know that in His own good day 
He giveth all of His beloved sleep. 



COMING, LOVE ! 



I HEAR the rustle of the leaves, 
I see a shadow glide 
From the sweet stillness of the eves 
When we were side by side, 
And all the world was wide — 
And we were all the world, mine own, 
Its joy, and melody, and moan, 
Until there crept an under-tone. 
And swelled to this deep dirge — alone ! 

Thy shadow. Love! is coming 

Across the weary years; 
My heart is faintly humming 

A song thy name endears. 

It almost breaks to listen — 

I feel thy tread so still, 
And all the dewdrops glisten. 

And all the roses thrill; 
And all the blessed angels 

Are smiling from above, 
And singing sweet evangels, 

For thou art coming. Love ! 
2* 



18 O, ANNIE may! 



?rpWAS Summer in the sunny West 

i AVhen first I met you by the way; 
'T is little I have known of rest — 
Ah ! little, since that sunny day. 

Why were you there, O, Annie May ! 

With song-birds hopping on your breast 
No wonder they should love to play 

Around so beautiful a nest. 

Were you a-weary, Annie May ! 

Of what, and whom, 0, sweetest maid ! 
Or wherefore was it that you lay 

Asleep beneath the hazel shade ? 

I saw you in the noonday hours, 

With these black eyes that cannot see; 

I thought you were a bunch of flowers — 
Of snow-white blossoms blown for me. 

Was there no angel in the West 

To stoop and tell you I was there — 

To start the song-birds from your breast. 
And send them singing up in air ? 



THE DEAR OLD ROBIN RED-BREAST. 19 

No spirit of the wood-land dell 

To turn my weapon's aim away ? 
The dead and bleeding birdling fell, 

And thou — alas ! 0, Annie May ! 

0, Annie May ! 0, Annie May ! 

Could I have seen thee once before, 
Perhaps 'twere not so hard to say 

That I shall see thee now no more. 

And may be it were harder still — 

I cannot say : I can but weep, 
As here, upon a daisied hill, 

I sit and guard thy dreamless sleep. 



I WAKENED as the lark went up, at daylight's 
early dawning, 
To bid the Angels up in heaven a jubilant good 

morning, 
A thousand loving little larks were singing in my 

breast, 
But the grand old robin red-breast sang louder than 
the rest. 



20 THE DEAR OLD ROBIN RED-EREAST. 

He sang from out the dear old years through 

memory's golden vista, 
I saw him sitting on the birch beside his pretty 

sister, 
The same as when in other morns we watched 

their sober plays. 
I dreamed of you last night, Bob ! of the robins 

and the jays; 

And of the sweet witch-hazel, and of the four- 
leaved clover. 

And of our castles in the air that long since tum- 
bled over; 

And of the fragrant sassafras, and of the scented 
fern, 

0, Bob ! if all those blessed days could once again 
return ! 



If I could have a spikenard root, or smell the 

wintergreen. 
Or pluck the lustrous princess-pine, or see the 

laurel's sheen — 
Why, I should almost feel, dear Bob ! as if, with 

hand in hand, 
We wandered through the spicy woods, in the 

bright old summer-land. 



THE DEAR OLD ROBIN RED-BREAST. 21 

Have you kept the long brown curl, Bob ! I gave 
you when we parted ? 

I've never lost your golden lock, but you were 
giddy hearted, 

And it may be that you have thrown the worthless 
thing away — 

Was it a worthless thing to you ? perhaps — I can- 
not say. 

Last week I read of you, dear Bob ! in Harper's 

Magazine, 
It seems that you are Bob no more, but Captain 

Robert Green ; 
It may be you are Captain, or a General — may be, 
But never anything but Bob can you ever be to me. 

I read about how brave you were, and of your good 

promotion, 
And then I kissed the sunny lock whose mates are 

o'er the ocean; 
And all last night I dreamed of you, and the robin 

hopped between, 
And sang unto my heart of Bob — not Captain 

Robert Green. 



a 9 



22 A LITTLE BLOSSOM. 



% mtik Slossom. 



TO GERRIT SMITH. 

I DARE not speak of thee, in idle rhyming, 
As one might of another, 
Thou, whose great soul with all things good is 
chiming, 
The world's most loving brother ! 

Thou, in whose heart the most melodious measures 

Keep sweetest tune and time ; 
Yet I have nought, from all my little treasures, 

To give thee, but my rhyme. 

For when my heart, with beautiful emotion, 

Is lifted high and higher, 
Thrilled with thy thoughts, from o'er the Alps and 
ocean, 

As with electric fire — 

It is but meet to find some sweet oblation, 

With reverence to bring 
Unto thy feet, thou living revelation 

Of what the mountains sins; ! 



A LITTLE BLOSSOM. 23 

And I have nothing save a little blossom, 

Gathered beneath the snow, 
Upon St. Gothard's palpitating bosom, 

Where Alpine roses blow. 



Beyond a thousand dimpling dells and fountains 

I see the glaciers gleam; 
O'er the white vesture of the Alpine mountains 

Eternal rainbows beam. 



I look — the hills are towering in the distance, 

Where the immortal Three 
Swore a great oath that with the Lord's assistance, 

Their country should be free. 



And the Alps heard it, while at their foundations 

The very roses smiled — 
They thought how God had given to the nations 

The Freedom they defiled. 



Therefore a little Alpine flower I find thee — 

A messenger of light, 
Unfolden on the mountains, to remind thee 

It is not always night. 



24 A LITTLE BLOSSOM. 

The buds of Freedom through thy spirit hreakiug, 

Begin to burst in bloom; 
And Liberty shall have her full awaking, 

O'er Slavery's tearless tomb. 

Thy life has been a beautiful evangel 

To all the weak and lowly; 
For the oppressed thou art a guardian angel, 

A psalter high and holy. 



The soul of Switzerland upsprings to meet thee, 

She stretches out her hand 
Across the mountains and the seas to greet thee, 

And lure thee to her land. 

Zurich, Switzerland. 



A MOUNTAIN MONUMENT. 25 



% Hloitntain llomnnnit/'^ 



TO GENEKAL GARIBALDI. 

aARIBALDI imprisoned ! And yet the liills 
Are as free as tliey were at morn, 
And a mountain soul in fetters — God ! 
The Alps grow pale with scorn ! 

They think of the gleam of the first sunbeam, 
When the wakening world was young, 

When the little hills lay down to dream, 
And the stars of the Morning sung. 

And of how, at the sound of the Freedom song, 

They rose up into space. 
And stood by the side of the starry throng 

And looked God in the face. 

^ There is a gigantic formation of Alps — comprising 
part of the Bernina Range — in the Upper Engadine, 
Switzerland, bearing the lineaments of a human face — 
recently noted for its striking resemblance to Garibaldi, 
the news of whose wounds and imprisonment at Aspro- 
monte, reached us while sojourning at Pontresina, in 
sight of this marvellous creation. 
3 



26 A MOUNTAIN MONUMENT. 

They listened with their regal forms 

Upheld in royal might, 
And heard above the chaos storms, 

His sweet, "Let there be light!" 

The mountains crimsoned with delight, 
And shook in thunder thrills ', 

They leaned across the jeweled night, 
And whispered to the hills. 

And the little hills upspringing, 
Gave back an answering nod, 

Then burst out into singing 
Of Freedom and of God. 

And Freedom took her dwelling place 

Upon the mountains fair. 
And proudly, with a goddess' grace, 

She rocks her eagles there. 

The mountains shivered with unrest, 
The pitying goddess smiled, 

She saw upon their snowy breast 
The picture of her child. 

Thy picture, Garibaldi ! 

Upon the hills of God ! 
Where tyrant monarch never reigned. 

And Despot never trod. 



A MOUNTAIN MONUMENT. 27 

She saw its towering forehead rise 

An Alp, with sun-lit snows ! 
Beneath its rainbow-arched eyes 

She heard the storms repose — 

The storm-winds breathing low and deep, 

And whispering in their dreams, 
As when a giant speaks in sleep, 

On most melodious themes. 

Around its bearded granite mouth 

She saw the fringe of pines — 
The sighing pine trees leaning South 

And swaying toward the vines. 

She saw its glorious features turned 

To the sweet land of song, 
And her majestic spirit spurned 

The world that wrought him wrong. 

She longed to lure the Poet Land 

Up to her crystal throne — 
To lead her by the rosy hand 

Where Freedom reigns alone. 

She longed to bid her dauntless sons 

Rise in imperial might, 
And lift her loved and fettered ones 

Up to her realm of light. 



28 A MOUNTAIN MONUMENT. 

The indignant eagles sunward start; 

The wondering winds awake — 
Freedom is wounded in the heart 

For all her children's sake. 



At Garibaldi's prison bars 



The guardian goddess sings ! 



She lifts the blood-stained "Stripes and Stars'' 
Over the thrones of kings ! 



'to'' 



Enthroned on the Eternal hills, 
With God within her sight, 

She hears the nation's tocsin-thrills, 
And feels a Conqueror's might. 

She sees her glorious Flag unfurled 
To every Nation's breath; 

Her clarion war-cry for the World 
Is "Liberty or Death!" 



?)^^ 

^h 



THE BEAUTIFUL GEM ON THE WAY. 29 



ath(! I^ciuitiful (Bern on tlii; Wiix^. 

I KNOW a sweet letter is winging 
Its way, o'er the land and the sea, 
And a beautiful burden is bringing. 
From over the hills, to me. 

I know how the glad spirit fluttered. 

When it thrilled to the words that were penned, 

Yet the beautiful thoughts unuttered. 
Are those I most wish her to send. 

She wrote with a tremulous shiver. 

And wondered whene'er we should meet 

This side of the murmuring river. 

Where sweet shall be mingled with sweet. 

I would that I were but the blushes, 
That smiled on her out of the east, 

Or even a pause in the hushes. 

Where her musical breathing had ceased. 

I know only this of the letter — 

I dreamed she had written to me 
My spirit is bound with a fetter 

From which I would never be free. 



30 THE volunteer's VISION. 

I will patiently wait till the coming 
Of the beautiful gem on the way, 

While my spirit is inwardly humming 
The words that I know she will say. 



LAST night as I lay in the rain, 
And looked up to heaven through the night, 
A vision came o'er me, and lighted my brain 
With a glory that never will flood it again, 
This side of the River of Light. 

And I heard a sweet sound as it came. 

Like the flutter of feathery wings. 
And the voice of a seraph kept calling my name. 
And her breath in my tresses went playing the same 
As the air in an instrument's strings. 

I told my wild heart to be still, 

That the vision was naught but a dream, 
For I knew not that over the amethyst hill 
The feet of my darling had wandered at will, 
On the banks of Eternity's stream. 



THE volunteer's VISION. 31 

I said to the seraph-winged bird, 

0, why have you come from the West ? 
And she told how the leaves of the forest were 

stirred 
By the feet of the angels who brought her the 
word 
Of a land where the weary may rest. 

She said she was tired and faint, 

And her heart was all covered with snow; 
The angels they heard her unuttered complaint, 
They called her, and brought her the robes of a 
saint, 
And she said she was ready to go. 

I told her the blossoms were sweet, 

In the meadows, the same as of yore ; 
But she showed me the dew on her sparkling feet. 
They had caught of the lilies that bordered the 
street, 
By the sands of the Paradise shore. 

I asked her how long I must wait 

Before I should meet her afar, 
And I prayed her unfold me the book of my fate ; 
But she vanished, and passed through the crystal- 
line gate 

She had left in her coming ajar. 



32 I SHALL BE WITH THEE. 

Dear Hugh, there's a battle to-day, 

And perchance I may happen to fall ; 
If I'm not at the call of the roll, you may say 
A good-bye to the boys in my name, for I may 
Have said "aye" to an Angel's call. 



I Hitall bit xclWx mxn* 

I HEAR a footstep in the hall, 
I see a shadow on the wall — 
A moving shadow dark and tall — 
A voiceless shadow — this is all. 



No gentle footfall near my door 
Thrills to my heart across the floor, 
And I am weary thinking o'er 
That music I shall hear no more — 



That tender music, soft, and sweet — 
The melody of coming feet; 
I cry, and echo sends the call 
Back to my heart — and this is all. 



I SHALL BE WITH THEE. 33 

I feel a soft hand on my head — 
A hand whose touch seems overspread 
With balm, like that the lilies shed 
O'er the white bosoms of the dead ; 
And I am chill, while memories fall 
Like odors o'er me — this is all. 



I feel the rhythm and the rhyme 
Of thy dear life keep sweetest time 
With God's sweet sounds, and overclimb 
All sounds with which they inter-chime. 
I see thee — hear thee — feel thy breath 
In the still air which answereth, 
With lightest kiss whene'er I call, 
Mid tears for thee — and this is all. 



I cannot hear thee in the hall, 
Nor see thy shadow on the wall, 
Yet I shall hear an angel call 
My name adown the jasper wall; 
For when the leaves of Autumn fall, 
I shall be with thee — this is all. 



84 THE BROKEN BAND. 



®he Jroltttt land. 

COME o'er tlie sea, dear friend, with me, 
Back to the good old days, 
No need to-niglit of other light — 

The maple log's a-blaze. 
So let it burn, while we return, 

And by its pleasant glow 
We'll walk the ways, and sing the lays 
Of the dear old long-ago. 

I'll sit here in the shadow, but you must have the 

light; 
For I would see your soul shine out upon your face 

to-night. 
You will listen for sweet voices, and you think I 

cannot hear, 
So tell your dear old secrets and forget that I am 

near. 

I'll sit here while you're talking with the forms I 

cannot see. 
Perhaps I feel their presence, though they never 

think of me; 
I see a gleam of silver above the old arm-chair. 
And a sound like one of David's psalms is floating 

in the air. 



THE BROKEN BAND. 85 

Here sat the grand old patriarcli and patriot, whose 

tone 
Once floated from the old arm-chair up to the golden 

throne ', 
And there, beside the long great clock, I seem to 

see a gleam, 
So like an angel's crown of light, it cannot be a 

dream. 

And underneath the saintly crown I see a silver 

head — 
I know the blessed grandame sleeps beside the 

dreamless dead; 
And yet she sits there singing, with her knitting in 

her hand, 
A song from Watts his hymn book about the Better 

Land. 

There enters at the open door the stately country 
squire, 

With the pretty maid who sang the best of all the 
village choir; 

Why do you start and turn away at her still foot- 
step's fall ? 

Ah, me ! I hear your whispered vows, and then — 
an angel's call. 



36 THE BROKEN BAND. 

I know the Squire is Colonel now, in the brave New 

Ham23shire ranks; 
Was he the gallant Colonel Brown who fought with 

General Banks ? 
" Yes ; and a glorious fellow he — he'll have a grand 

career" — 
Poor friend, I lay the Times aside — the Colonel's 

death is here. 



I'll not disturb your reverie with talking of the 
brave — 

The cottage boundaries expand — I stand beside a 
grave : 

" T wonder where my brother Will is wandering to- 
night ?" 

Dear Willie walks the pearly streets up in the 
realms of light. 

I heard the soldier's funeral hymn they chanted 
o'er his rest, 

I saw them fold the glorious Flag above his dream- 
less breast, 

And I see him standing, even now, beside you, 
while you speak, 

With golden curls upon his brow, and smiles upon 
his cheek. 



WILLIE BROWN. 37 

Come o'er the main, dear friend, again. 



Back, to the Alpine Land; 
Thy household door shall ope no more 

On an unbroken band. 
The loving lays of other days 

By Angel lips are sung, 
And others walk the flowery ways 

We trod when we were young. 



THE night was dark in Ireland, 
The rain was falling down. 
And death was stealing to the heart 
Of little Willie Brown. 



He lay upon his mother's knee, 
And looked within her eyes; 

Of summers he had known but three, 
And they were three of sighs. 

He looked within her gentle eyes 
And tried in vain to speak; 

And paler grew the faded flowers 
Upon his lily cheek. 
4 



88 WILLIE BROWN, 

And well the mother knew the words 
Her darling would have said, 

For there he lay a-dying — 
Dying for want of bread. 

The rain npon the grassy roof 
Came wildly rushing down, 

And angels waited for the soul 
Of little Willie Brown. 

He lay upon his mother's knee^ 

And faster fell the rain; 
He never looked within her eyes, 

Or asked for bread again. 

And paler grew his lily cheek, 
His golden hair uncurled, 

And the angels whispered him away 
From hunger and the world. 




POEMS UNWRITTEN. 39 



§um^ Mmvnikn. 

THERE are poems unwritten, and songs unsung, 
Sweeter than any that ever were heard — 
Poems that wait for an angel tongue, 
Songs that but long for a Paradise bird. 



Poems that ripple through lowliest lives — 

Poems unnoted and hidden away 
Down in the souls where the beautiful thrives, 

Sweetly as flowers in the airs of the May. 



Poems that only the angels above us, 

Looking down deep in our hearts, may behold- 

Felt, though unseen, by the beings who love us. 
Written on lives as in letters of gold. 

Sing to my soul the sweet song that thou livest ! 

Read me the poem that never was penned — 
The wonderful idyl of life that thou givest 

Fresh from thy spirit, 0, beautiful friend! 



to SEND ME SOME LITTLE TOKEN. 



^mtl wxt ^mxni %liih WoMn. 

SEND me some little token, 
That my yearning heart may know 
That the vows have not been broken, 
Of the beautiful long ago. 

I can feel in the twilight chilly, 

Whenever I think of thee, 
Tlie soul of the fragrant lily, 

Quietly steal o'er me — 

Drowning my sense so sweetly 

In a flood of pure perfume, 
That thy presence fills completely 

The air of my quiet room. 

Send me a sprig that has pattered 
In the wind on thy window pane, 

Where the wrens in the morn have chattered 
To the sound of the running rain. 

Send me a leaf or a blossom 

That thy beautiful eyes have seen, 

With a sigh from thy heart to my bosom, 
To quietly creep between. 



THE WESTERN WOODS. 41 

It will come like a balm to the wounded, 

And sliiver the rock in twain, 
Where the bark of my hope is grounded, 

In the surge of the tossing main. 



I CANNOT see the glittering Alps that sparkle 
on my sight, 
I gaze upon their snowy peaks, but on another 

light : 
I look beyond the haze of years, to the Indian 

Summer days, 
And I see the boundless prairies of the Western 
world a-blaze ! 



I hear the crackling of the fire, upon the distant 

breeze. 
The soft and rosy atmosphere comes dreaming o'er 

the seas — 
The balmy Indian Summer air that mellows all the 

West, 
And lays the Autumn's drapery upon the Winter's 

breast. 
4* 



42 THE WESTERN WOODS. 

The magic of the hazy air has borne me back again 
To the cabin by the maple grove, beside the prairie 

plain ; 
I sit within the long, dry grass, and watch the 

Tintravelled way, 
And I see my pretty little fawns, under the oaks, 

at play. 



The lovely creatures spring aside, and dart across 
the grass, 

And then I hear a footstep near — I'll wait, and let 
it pass; 

And so I fold my trembling hands across my half- 
shut eyes. 

But it cannot close the vision out between me and 
the skies. 



''You came so still, dear neighbor Phil, you set my 

heart a-flutter ;" 
And this was all that I recall 'twas possible to 

utter ; 
I wished the creeping twilight tide on fleeter wings 

had sped. 
And this was what I thought about, but I know not 

what I said. 



THE WESTERN WOODS. 43 

But this I know, tlie sunset's glow liad made my 

pale cheek rosy, 
I feared the flush was like a blush, I stooped and 

plucked a posy ; 
'Twas but a faded prairie flower, and neighbor 

Philip smiled, 
" Oh, come," said he, " and walk with me, the airs 

are soft and mild." 



We wandered to a woodland stream, and heard a 

wild swan sing. 
We saw a flock of pigeons soar above us on the 

wing; 
We heard the whirring partridge pass, and startled 

up a roe. 
Yet how we came to frighten her is more than I 

can know. 



We never could have talked aloud — I know not if 

at all — 
You might have heard a breathing bird, or the 

lightest leaflet's fall; 
I think that Philip did not speak, and yet it really 

seems 
As if some low-toned words of his were woven in 

my dreams. 



44 THE WESTERN WOODS. 

It must tave been his eyes that spoke — 'twas 
nothing but his eyes — 

A roe might just as well have run from the star- 
light of the skies ; 

Yet I remember, while I think, of how I tried to 
hide, 

As I felt him coming through the grass, in the 
early even-tide. 



We stepped across a babbling brook, the wild-duck 

were asleep 
Among the fragrant water-flowers, in slumbers soft 

and deep. 
How lovely it must be to rest in such a wild-wood 

bed. 
With silver sands beneath the feet, and the stars 

of heaven o'erhead. 



We heard the prairie-chickens peep from out their 

hidden nest; 
'Twas time that they were fast asleep, 'neath their 

mother's speckled breast ; 
And though the early stars were out, we heard the 

whistling quail ; 
Were I to tell of all we heard, my pen and ink 

would fail. 



GOD HE WILL LEAVE ME JIM. 45 

And yet the loudest sound of all was in each throb- 
bing breast, 

My heart has never ceased to beat with the same 
sweet wild unrest; 

And now the Alpine Autumn leaves are rustling 
on the ground, 

But I only see the Western Woods, and hear my 
own heart's sound. 



^0(1 f if will hum \M Jim/ 



ffiii 



" OOLDIER! say, did you meet my Jimmy in 

L) the fight? 
You'd know him by his manliness, and by his eyes' 

sweet light." 
"I fought beside your gallant son — a brave, good 

fellow he; 
Alas ! he fell beneath the shot that should have 
taken me.'' 



* Words of an American soldier's mother, who, on 
hearing that her son had fallen in battle, became hope- 
lessly insane, though continually insisting that his having 
"fallen" was of no consequence. 



46 WHILE GOD HE LEAVES ME REASON, 

" And think you that my Jimmy cared about a 

little fall? 
Why make a great ado of what he would not mind 

at all ? 
When Jimmy was a little boy and played with 

Bobby Brown, 
He always played the enemy, and Bob he shot him 

down. 



" I've seen him fall a hundred times — the cunning 

little sprite ! 
He can't forget his boyish tricks, though in an 

earnest fight. 
But never mind about the fall, I want to hear of 

him; 
Perhaps you've heard the Captain speak of what he 

thinks of Jim ?" 



" I often heard the Captain say, Jim was a splendid 

lad — 
The bravest, and the handsomest, of all the boys 

he had; 
And here's a lock of Jimmy's hair, and here's a 

golden ring — 
I found it tied around his neck upon a silken 

string." 



GOD HE WILL LEAVE ME JIM. 47 



The mother took the matted tress, she took the 

ring of gold, 
But shook her head, and laughed aloud at what the 

soldier told : 
" Soldier !" said she, " where is my boy — Where is 

my brave boy Jim ? 
I gave the others all to God, but God He left me 

him. 



" Hush ! there is Uncle Abraham, a-knocking at 

the door. 
He calls for other mother's sons — three hundred 

thousand more ! 
Be still, Old Uncle Abraham — ^t will do no good 

to call; 
You think my house is full of boys — ah ! Jimmy 

was my all V 




48 THE WESTERN VOLUNTEER. 



I KNEW his loyal heart would leap at the first 
battle sound, 

And that his glorious soul would spring with wild 
exultant bound, 

To meet the traitors face to foce, upon the traitor- 
land; 

The sound of his melodious voice will quell the 
rebel band, 

The thunder of his glorious voice will shake the 
despot's sand. 



His very words to other boys are as a trumpet's 

call; 
The widow Alden's sons are brave, but mine is most 

of all. 
And sister Jane, whose Samuel has quite a fair 

renown. 
Told me this morning that my John was the bravest 

boy in town. 
And she said that John was fit to die, like the 

Patriot John Brown. 



THE WESTERN VOLUNTEER. 49 

I told her I could keep tlie suu from sinking in the 
West, 

As well as I could keep my John within the house- 
hold nest; 

For ever since the darling knew of Sumpter's fear- 
less fate, 

It seems as if the blessed boy was almost filled with 
hate — 

The South will soon begin to wish there was no 
Western State. 



I've nothing in the world to say against an Eastern 

lad, 
For Dick was born at home in Maine, and Dick is 

not so bad; 
Yet brother Richard never was the boy that John 

will be; 
There may be other lads as good, but John's the 

best for me 
Of all the boys that go to war — we'll see what we 

shall see ! 



As I was telling sister Jane ('t was natural, you 

know), 
I almost thought my heart would break, when I 
knew that John would go; 
5 



50 THE WESTERN VOLUNTEER. 

But I never said a single word, except that he was 

right, 
Yet I believe my hands they shook, as I handed 

him the light 
Before he went up stairs to bed to his little room 

that ni":ht. 



I sat beside the kitchen fire, and thought about 

my son ; 
It cannot be that I was weak — he is my only one — 
But I never dreamed of keeping him ('twould be 

of no avail), 
I thought how true the boy would be if all the rest 

should fail ; 
If John was set against the World, the World could 

not prevail. 



I took the candle from the stand, and softly went 
up stairs, 

As when, in other days, I heard my baby say his 
prayers ; 

But John was sleeping, and I laid my hand upon 
his head ; 

What was it that the blessed boy in his sweet sleep- 
ing said ? 

Poor child ! 't was not his mother's name, but a 
maiden's name instead. 



THE WESTERN VOLUNTEER. 51 

I kissed his lips, and kissed his cheek, and smoothed 

his clustering hair; 
0, what a glorious boy he was as he lay dreaming 

there ; 
I thought what Gen. Scott would think, to see so 

brave a man 
Come thundering from the Western States, the 

foremost in the Van ; 
The good old General shall see that what we will, 

we can I 



If there should be a rebel Flag flaunting within 
the town. 

My John he is the very boy to go and take it 
down. 

My sister asked how T should feel if John should 
chance to fall ? 

Ah ! such a thing could never be — I have no fear 
at all; 

I tell you John is proof against the fleetest cannon- 
ball. 



The prairie and the village street thrill to the drum 

and fife ; 
I could not help these truant tears, were it to save 

my life. 



52 A KINGLY HERITAGE. 

The cars are starting for the East amid a thousand 
cheers ; 

Though mother of a soldier son, I cannot stay my 
tears. 

God bless the noble regiments of Western Volun- 
teers ! 



I HAVE a little drop of blood 
Whose course is wild and fleet, 
Sometimes I feel it in my soul, 

And sometimes in my feet. 
Sometimes it courses like a rill, 

And sometimes like a flood. 
And often I am deluged with 
This little drop of blood. 

I know from whence the heritage — 

From out the hearts of kings — 
Sometimes it grows ethereal, 

And spreads itself in wings ; 
And then I feel the souls of winds 

Go bearing me away 
Back to the high ancestral halls. 

Where jewelled fountains play. 



A KINGLY HERITAGE. 53 

Within the royal temple's aisles 

Divinest singers sing, 
And at the holy altar shrines 

The sweetest censers swing, 
The incense of whose pure perfume 

Melts through the azure dome, 
And forms again in spirit flowers. 

In the "Mighty Spirit's" home. 



The crowns that graced the haughty brows 

Of my ancestral kings, 
Were not of yellow gold and stones, 

But glorious eagle's wings. 
Their palace halls — the boundless woods, 

Their shrines — >the forest bowers. 
Their singers — all the birds of heaven, 

Their censer cups — the flowers. 



The temples that they worshipped in, 

They were not made with hands, 
And they had their hunting grounds of One 

Who never sells His lands. 
And when the mighty buffalo, 

With their majestic tread. 
Went shaking down the stars from heaven, 

From the hunting grounds o'erhead, 
5* 



64 A KINGLY HERITAGE. 

The Brave, to whom the spirit spake, 

Replied with regal pride, 
And with his death-song on his lips 

He laid him down and died. 
Ye sleep, 0, kingly ancestors ! 

Beneath the forest trees, 
But your royal ghosts are still about 

Upon the woodland breeze. 

Sometimes they tramp across my heart 

As through a hunting ground; 
I feel a hundred Indians leap 

Within it at a bound. 
'Tis but a little drop of blood, 

And yet I feel it roll 
As if a thousand tomahawks 

Were lifted in my soul ! 



It lights the secret council fires 

Within my heart and brain, 
At which the soul in silence sits 

And deigns not to complain. 
Your royal ghosts, 0, woodland kings! 

They reign in me at will, 
And bid me, with imperial pride, 

To suflFer, and be stilL 



WE MET AND PARTED. 55 

They do not teacli, wlien smote, to turn 

And give the other cheek; 
Alas, lordly ancestors ! 

Ye were not over-meek : 
Too much of eagle in your souls, 

Too little of the dove. 
My heritage though rich in hate, 

Is poor enough in love ! 



:i5 itct and |artetl 



WE met and parted — only met but once, 
And then we parted. God had willed it so. 
We looked within each other's eyes, and saw 
Our pictures deep within each other's eyes, 
And felt them each upon the other's heart. 
We shivered, and we wept, and spoke of griefs 
That but belonged to others : and we talked 
About the woes of others — meaning ours — 
Sorrows that came but of our having met. 
And knowing we must part. And did we part ? 
Was that farewell a parting ? It may be ; 
And yet I think it was not — I have been 
Beside thee and around thee through the years 
That cast their shadows back on that adieu, 



56 WE MET AND PARTED. 

And all tlie angels who have seen my heart 
Have found a being that was still of earth 
Upon its holiest altar there enshrined; 
And yet they could not chide, for thou wert there: 
And well enough the blessed angels knew 
That nought that was not pure as pearl could come 
And enter, where thy image barred the gate. 
Who thinks that silence, and a thousand hills, 
And years, and oceans, can avail to keep 
Souls that have kissed and mingled, far apart? 
They have not severed ours; they never may. 
Though nought but Death can join us hand in 

hand, 
There's Death enough in Life to join our hearts; 
And faith enough in the sweet Life to come 
Have we, to know that on the other shore 
We two shall stand — two beings with one soul, 
One wedded soul — as if we thus had lived, 
And walked the selfsame pathway here on Earth. 



BEAT TO HER PULSES SAVEET. 57 



geat k lxt\\ pulsus ^wnt 

BEAT to her pulses sweet 
Winds of the summer night ! 
Creep to her bosom deep, 

Silvery streams of light ! 
Blow, with a lullaby low, 

Airs of the midnight still ; 
Come, with a murmuring hum, 

Roll of the rippling rill ! 
Float to her snowy throat. 

Breath of the budding flowers ! 
Faint to her sweet complaint, 

Damps of the dewy hours ! 
Meet in her heart, each sweet 

That the Earth or air has known ! 
Rest in her beautiful breast, 

Beautiful dreams, alone. 



^9 



58 EVA. 



c 



(Bua. 



AN a bird witli wounded wing, 
Above the branches soar? 
Can a mother gaily sing, 

When the grass is withered o'er 
A little heart, that bore 
Her own heart to the shore, 
Where angel-babies meet, 
And play at Jesus' feet. 

And creep the golden floor ? 

Through earth, forevermore, 
1 see an open door, 

Beyond the cloudy sleet, 

Where my dear baby's feet 
Have walked the path before. 
I see her beckon from the other shore ; 

I listen as I dream, 
That I am sailing softly o'er, 

The ripple of Life's stream. 

What should I sing for now, 
When her fair lily brow 
Is glorified and white, 
Under a crown of lioht? 



EVA. 59 



I may not sing nor weep 
Above her, in her sleep, 
For the sweet Angels keep. 
Kindly, the flowers they reap, 
And they will guard my bud, 
In her pure babyhood. 
Until I go to her, 
A chastened worshipper, 
To press her angel face, 
To my fond heart's embrace. 

Why should I sing ere then ? 
I will sing gladly, when 
My fettered soul shall rise. 
From this dim world of sighs, 
To the sweet upper skies. 
To meet my darling's eyes. 
And feel her downy head 

Upon my heart once more, 
For oh ! she is not dead ! 

She only went before. 



60 TOO LATE. 



Woo Iitt^. 

WHY art thou here, sweet bird, 
Beneath the wintry stars ? 
I questioned, while I heard 
A withered briar stirred 

Against my window bars. 
Bird of the drooping wing, 

A sweetly-moaning mouth, 

Thou shouldst be singing South. 
What hope or love could bring 

Thy little straying feet, 

From leaves and roses sweet, 
To press the chilly snow, 
And feel the cold winds blow, 

And stem the wintry sleet? 
And the bird answered, " Well, I know, 
Another flower will never grow 
So beautiful as that which sprung 

From out a little sod, 
Where lay a flower that faded young 

To blossom up with God. 
I saw it slowly bud and bloom 
Above that angel-baby's tomb; 
It was a clover, pure and white, 

The sweetest and the best 



LULU BELL. 61 

That ever opened to the light 

Above a baby's breast. 
The robin called me, day by day, 

With sweet and wooing sound; 
What cared I, while my darling lay, 

Sweet'ning the hallowed ground ? 
I waited but to see it die — 

It had no other mate — 
And then the birds had wandered by 
To love beneath a Southern sky, 

Alas ! for me too late ! ^' 



lulu ietl. 

ANGELS stoop to whisper. 
When the winds are low. 
O'er our little lisper. 

In her dress of snow ; 
With her tresses straying 

O'er the pillow white. 
And the dimples playing 

Like a wave of light. 
Or a halo raying 
O'er an angel praying 
In the baby's sight. 
6 



62 LULU BELL. 

As slie lay, a dreaming, 
O'er her features fell 
Glory, like a spell, 

And a seraph, seeming, 
Talked with Lulu Bell! 

Fairer than the blushes 

"When the day is born; 
Sweeter than the thrushes 

In the scented thorn 
Frailer than the rushes 

By the marshy dell; 
Bright as beauty's flushes 

Is our Lulu Bell I 

Lulu Bell! 
Sweetly swell 
Seas of crystal love, 
From the overflowing well, 

Where a little dove. 
Fluttering to a mother's breast, 
Folds its snowy wings to rest. 

May thy holy love abide 
Till her heart is glorified, 
By the silver light of years 
Drifted over smiles and tears. 
Over shadows, over woes, 
To a haven of repose. 



BELLA DOWE. 

Darling! may'st thou ever rest, 
In tlie sweetly-sheltered nest 
Of a mother's faithful breast. 
Shadow-clouds will curl above thee, 
But if there is one to love thee — 
One soft hand to cover over, 
Thistles, in the fragrant clover, 
Crushing all beside the sweet 
From the pathway of thy feet, 
Then, indeed, thy lot is well, 
Little, gentle Lulu Bell ! 



aENTLE Maiden! 
Over-shaden 
By thy sunny smiles, as sweet 
As the lily, interbraiden 

With the morning's dewy feet. 
Up it springs, in crystal glory, 
Whispers out its tender story. 
And the breezes lift it up, 
From its over-bending cup; 
Loving, fragrant, holy thing, 
For thy heart an offering — 
Lily ! thus I liken thou, 
Unto gentle, Bella Dowe. 



64 bella dowe. 

Bella Dowe! 
List the vow 

That I make to thee ! 
Ere the lilies droop again, 
Underneath the summer rain, 

I shall cease to be; 
And I vow thee by the blowing 

Of the lily bell so white, 
That my love, forever flowing 

O'er thee, like a stream of light, 
Shall flow ever, as to-night. 



■t'j 



I am goin< 
Where the glowing, 
Of diviner waters roll. 
While a bud of hope is blowing 
Fragrantly, within my soul; 
It is this : Oh, Bella Dowe ! 
When the grass is o'er me growing, 
Thou wilt feel my love is flowing 
Softly unto thee, as now. 

Loving Bella ! gentle Bella ! 
Summer breezes! kindly tell her, 
When the dust is on my brow, 
How I love her, Bella Dowe. 



SWEET BESSIE GRAY. 



^wni ^essiij (Brag» 

MOTHER! I love sweet Bessie Gray 
Better than all the girls; 
She is so gentle in her play, 
And has such pretty curls, 

And every blessed morn, she sings 

Together with the birds : 
I think that she has hidden wings, 

That flutter ^neath her words ; 

For I have heard a little sound 

Fill her sweet pauses out; 
Perhaps, the angels were around, 

And, wondering, stayed about. 

I cannot find in all my books, 
Her words, nor yet their tune; 

So like the ripple of the brooks, 
Under the stars, in June. 

Dear Allie Bay has hazel eyes. 

That speak their own sweet praise; 
And Sue's, are like the summer skies, 

But not like Bessie Gray's. 
6* 



65 



HEART-BREATHINGS. 

Sweet Bessie Gray's are like the night, 
So calm, and dark, and deep; 

With a soul-star, to make the light — 
Mother ! why should she weep ? 

For all the violets unfold. 

When her soft hands they see; 

They long to wither in her hold, 
And yet, they hide from me. 

The dew-drop, in the rose's heart, 

The tears, in Bessie's eyes, 
Were shaken down, but fell apart, 

From flower-buds, in the skies. 



PRESS my cold hand closer, dearest, 
To your warm heart, while I weep; 
I would feel your breath the nearest 
On my lips, and o'er my sleep. 
Bend above me. 
Love, and love me. 
Sing me to a slumber deep. 



HEART-BREATHINGS. 67 

I should sleep, without your singiug, 
I could love, without your mouth ; 

For the breezes would he bringing 
Songs and odors from the South; 



'& 



Odors, they had stolen, blowin< 
O'er the sweetness of your lips; 

Music, they had learned, in knowing 
Your sweet spirit's fellowships. 

I could rest, without your pressing 
My cold hands against your heart ; 

But, without your murmured blessing, 
I could never hence depart. 

I could never go up yonder. 

Through the pearly gates above, 
Without smiles a little fonder,. 
Dimpling round the lips I love, 
Without feeling 
The revealing 
Of a hope untold. 
I would carry up its sealing, 
To the upper fold. 

Gentle lover ! 
Weep above her ; 
She will nevermore 
Call a human heart to love her. 



68 GOOD NIGHT. 

It is well she went before. 

She'll be waiting at Heaven's door, 

Over, on the other shore, 

Ye shall walk the golden floor, 

Side by side, forevermore. 



(good f ifllit. 

GOOD NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill 
AVhich severs those it should unite; 
Let us remain together still, 

Then, it will be — Good Night ! 

How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? 

Be it not said, thought, understood, 
Then, it will, be Good Night! 

To hearts which near each other move, 
From evening close, to morning light, 

The night is good; because, my love, 
They never say — Good Night! 



TOSSED UPON LIFE S HEAVING OCEAN. 



Wo^Bul Upon Sife's Iciitiinu ®(^mi 

TOSSED upon Life's heaving ocean, 
Swaying to its billow's motion, 
Naught care I for its commotion, 

Though the storms are black above me, 
While, with her divine devotion, 
I have Mary, still, to love me. 



In the midnight, when the thunder 
Echoes o'er the waves, and under. 
Tearing ships and hearts asunder, 

None of these can ever move me. 
With so wild a thrill of wonder. 

As that Mary lives to love me. 



When, from out my bosom, taking 

One soft tress, that stills its aching. 

And three words, that checked its breaking 

Her — "I love you" — fondly proves me, 
That my heart, a heaven is making 

In the thought, that Mary loves me. 



70 I WILL NOT SAY GOOD-BYE. 

Mary ! thou art all my treasure, 
Grace-note of my heart's song-measure, 
Thought of all my toil and leisure; 

And my soul's deep love shall prove thee, 
That thou art my only pleasure, 

And that I but live, to love thee. 



3 will not sag (Sood-hge, 

I WILL not say — Good-bye ! 
For how can you and I 
Be parted, though so wide ? 
We walk in soul to-day, 
Who seem so far away, 
And wander, side by side; 
There is no sad farewell. 
For those who fondly dwell 
Together, heart to heart; 
They cannot walk apart : 
And thus, I may not say — 
Farewell, dear friend, to-day. 



THE ALPINE LOVERS. 71 

I. 

IN a low hut, among tlie Alpine ledges, 
There dwelt a hunter, and a gentle maid, 
Purer than flowers upon the hawthorn hedges, 
Blossomed within the glade. 



She had no treasure, . save the silver arrow. 
With which her radiant tresses were confined; 

Sweeter than twitterings of a summer sparrow, 
Her voice rose on the wind. 

/ 

What need of treasures, while the world above her, 
Glittered with gems as in the light of God ? 

There dwelt a hunter, who but lived to love her, 
Up where the angels trod. 



He often told her, how the dear departed 
Wandered beside him, on the giddy heights; 

And well she knew, that angels, loving hearted, 
Guarded him in the nights. 



72 THE ALPINE LOVERS. 

She never heard, of what the world calls '^ fashion," 
And never thought, of what the world might say ; 

Yet, loving deeds, of beautiful compassion, 
Flowered on her mountain way. 



She never knew, that music needed teachers. 
But learned her warblings of the singing rills ; 

She thought God's mountains, his divinest preachers, 
His holiest shrines, His hills ! 



The incense of her loving heart's devotion. 
Rose little higher than her hunter's cot; 

She thought the spring of Love's auroral ocean, 
Welled from one mountain spot. 



The summer came, and brought its Alpine roses, 
The hunter journeyed with an angel-guide ; 

And wandered forth to where the Earth-land closes, 
Nor left the anorel's side. 



II. 



The swallows, up from the summer hedges, 
And hop across the threshold of the cot — 

The hunter's cot, among the Alpine ledges 

Singing, " Forget me not." 



THE ALPINE LOVERS. 73 

Go to the world, and sing about forgetting 5 
little birds ! they need your lesson there — 

Not to the maid, whose sun of life is setting 
Under her silver hair — 

Who, through long days, and starless nights of 
sorrow, 
Watches forever, for the twilight tide — 
The hour, that brings her, with each coming 
morrow. 
Her hunter-boy, who died. 

He comes, a spirit, in the twilights lonely. 
And smooths her tresses, noting not their hue ; 

He takes her withered hand — he loved her, only. 
And faithfully, and true. 

The peasants whisper, that the hut is haunted, 
And that a wizard-vine is round the door ; 

They say the maiden dwells, as if enchanted, 
AVith one, who is no more. 




74 I'm dying, comrade. 



I THINK I'm dying, comrade, 
The day is growing dark; 
And that is not the bob-o-link. 

Nor yet the meadow-lark : 
It cannot be the distant drum; 

It cannot be the fife, 
For why should drum, or bob-o-link, 
Be calling me from life ? 

I do not think Tm wounded ; 

I cannot feel a pain ; 
And yet Tve fallen, comrade, 

Never to rise again. 
The last that I remember, 

We charged upon the foe; 
I heard a sound of victory. 

And that is all I know. 

I think we must have conquered, 
For all last night it seemed 

That I was up in Paradise — 
Among the blest, it seemed. 



I'm dying, comrade. 75 

And there, beside the Throne of God, 



I saw a banner wave, 
The good old Stars and Stripes, my boy. 
O'er victory and the grave. 

A hundred thousand soldiers 

Stood at the right of God; 
And old John Brown, he stood before, 

Like Aaron with his rod : 
A slave was there beside him, 

And Jesus Christ was there ; 
And over God, and Christ, and all. 

The banner waved in air. 



And now I'm dying, comrade. 

And there is old John Brown 
A standing at the Golden Gate, 

And holding me a crown. 
I do not hear the bob-o-link, 

Nor yet the drum and fife; 
I only know the voice of God 

Is calling me from life. 



76 THE LORD WILL MAKE IT GOOD. 



®he lonl mil 3M^ it (ioott. 

WHAT need of the muffled music's din? 
What need of the burial rite? 
Dig them a hole, and hustle them in, 
Anywhere, out of our sight. 

What if they won us a glorious day ? 

W^as'nt it honor enough 
For niggers to die in the selfsame way 

As men of a nobler stuff? 

" Men of a nobler stuff," you say, 

That is for Christ to decide, 
When he calls the muster-roll to-day, 

Over the other side. 

What, if the land of shadows had thrown 
A darkness o'er some of the faces, 

The black and the white, in heaven, are known 
Alone by the spirit's graces. 

Jesus is never going to ask 

What was your color, below ? 
It matters him not, if the earthly mask 

Were black, or as white as snow. 



THE LORD WILL MAKE IT GOOD. 77 

Jesus will look at tlie Patriot's heart, 

And in heaven, it is understood, 
Though the War Department pays but part. 

That the Lord will make it good. 

What, if your grave is a wretched hole ? 

What, if your color be that of night ? 
The robes of the Patriot soldier's soul, 

Are woven out of the inner light. 

All the same, be you black or white, 
All the same, on the other strand; 

Live and die for the regal Right, 

For God and the Right and the Fatherland. 

The darkest night has the brightest stars. 

And ever the brightest dawning; 
And a voice, up over his prison bars, 



The pri.son "bars'^ are tumbling in. 

As they speak to one another; 
Christ above, and the slave within. 
While the nations shake with a jar and din, 
As if to listen, alone, were sin 

To Christ's sweet call of — "brother.'' 



I SAW THEE FROM AFAR. 



J saitJ Mtii pom ^fin. 

IN the deep stillness of the heaven above me, 
I saw thee from afar, 
Nor deemed that thou could'st ever stoop to love 
me. 
Thou radiant morning star ! 

I felt thee in the silence of the even, 

Thy presence, like a rhyme, 
Thou melody from out the smiling heaven ! 

Escaped before thy time. 

Thou grace-note, shaken by the wings of angels 

From off the golden lyres ! 
Thou incense of a seraph's sweet evangels ! 

Thou flame of heavenly fires ! 

Thou beauty and thou glory! ever trailing 

Streams of celestial light, 
In thy pure pathway, up beyond our hailing, 

And far beyond our sight; 

What am I, that from out thy splendor bending 

Thou hast looked kindly down, 
And to my heart so graciously art lending 

Thy white love for a crown ? 



OUR LITTLE BIRD OF PARADISE. 



@ur littlif iird of |;tra(tisit. 

IN our hearts a baby bird, 
By her wordless warbling, stirred 
Melody by angels heard. 

Stooping from the starry skies, 
Looking in her laughing eyes, 
They beheld, with sweet surprise, 

Little cherubs, pure and white, 
Lying in their liquid light. 
Swimming in their saintly sight. 



Airs of Aiden seemed to float 
Softly round her snowy throat, 
While the blessed angels wrote — 

Bird of Paradise, we moan 

That thy wandering wings have flown 

From the sweet celestial Throne. 

And the angels fluttered round, 

Singing inly without sound, 

"The lost lamb of heaven is found." 



80 OUR LITTLE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

And the mother, little knowing, 
That her bosom's bud was growing, 
Only for a sweeter blowing, 



Heard not, in the creeping calm, 
Broodiog with its blessed balm, 
The soft swelling of a psalm. 



By whose sound, the little flower 
Opened, to the magic power 
Of the music's swelling shower. 

When the clouds of heaven uncurl, 
We can see our little girl. 
Beautiful, and pure as pearl, 

Looking on us, and we know 
Though the nests be filled with snow. 
Whence the little birdlings go, 

That they flit in fairer groves, 
Watching o'er their earthly loves, 
Seraph-winged, celestial doves. 




TO WILLIAH CULLEN BRYANT. 81 

©0 mnimn (fallen Srijitnt, 

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, NOV. 3, 1864. 

NOT from the cultured gardens, 
and not from the daisied sod, 
Do I bring my little offering, 

but down from the hills of God — 
Down from the crystal mountains, 
where never a flower was sown. 
Save the flower that the Lord has planted.* 
in sight of the Great White Throne. 

From over the nests of the eagles, 

and under the Angels' feet, 
Where the opal airs of summer 

and the winds of winter meet, 

* The blossom of Edelweiss presented Mr. Bryant was 
gathered upon an Alpine mountain in Switzerland, nearly 
eleven thousand feet above the level of the sea. It grows 
only upon the snow mountains, and is held in great vener- 
ation by the hunters. It is the first offering an Alpine 
lover brings to the idol of his heart, and is believed to 
blossom only for sinless maidens. Poets, Saints, and the 
truly good. The Alpineers tell us that it will wither and 
die if a bad man but look upon it. 



2 TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

A flower I bring — an offering 
from the snow-hill's silver crest, 

And leave sweet songs, and laurel crowns, 
and Earth-flowers, for the rest. 

The Alpine hunters 'tell us, 

that when a Poet dies, 
God meets him at the Golden Gate, 

crowned with the Edelweiss. 
But only those who 've worshipped Him 

in singing Nature's praise, 
And walked beside Him on the hills, 

and through Life's lowly ways. 

O, King of Nature's Songsters ! 

and thus I bring to thee, 
This blossom from the Alpine hills — 

the glorious and Free; 
That when the Angels bid thee pause, 

where oft thy soul has trod 
To crown thee on the mountain tops, 

upon thy way to God, 

That thou may'st recognize the flower 

as one, while yet below, 
And walking in the Earthly ways, 

thou still had'st learned to know. 



ANGELS ! LEAD HER LIGHTLY. 83 

Thus, from no cultured garden, 

and not from the daisied sod, 
Do I bring my little offering 

but down from the hills of God. 



Jinijcts ! 3ml fcr Siijlitlg. 

ANGELS ! lead her lightly 
Up the heavenly stairs, 
Never soul so slightly 
Needed earthly prayers. 

Leave her where the glory 

Of His shadow falls. 
There to tell her story 

When her Saviour calls. 

She will whisper faintly 

Of her sin and shame, 
When in accents saintly 

Jesus calls her name, 

" Mary ! '' and the Angels, 
Singing round the Throne, 

Cease their sweet evangels 
At that tender tone. 



84 THE OLD YEAR. 

All the saints in Aiden 

That for joy were dumb, 
Echo round the maiden, 



®h(| ©Id |cait. 



COULD the dear and dead old year, 
Arise from out the past, 
And bring again his sunshine here, 

And bid its glory last — 
We would not lure him back again, 
With all the midnights and the rain, 
E'en though his twilight tints were sweet, 
And rosy his auroral feet — 
Although his dews were pure and clear, 
And all his blessed birds were dear. 
For there were ravens in the dark, 
Who sang not like the morning lark, 
But croaked with visage dark and grim, 
A symphony to her sweet hymn; — 
And there were ravens of the heart 
Who, looking forward, saw the dart, 



THE NEW YEAR 85 

That turned our morning into night, 
"Who knew our roses hid a blight. 
Oh no, we would not lure him back. 
With all the shadows on his track. 



ilt^ gar gmi 

WELCOME to the prince of Earth, 
Regal Conqueror by birth, 
Kindly deal with us and ours, 
Lead us over beds of flowers, 
And beside Life's limpid streams. 
Where the soul's sweet sunshine beams. 
Lead us not into the dark, 
Where no singing wren nor lark 
Wakes the morning with his mirth, 
Glorifying Life and Earth, 
Sweetening all the air above. 
With the fragrance of its love. 
By the holy water flood, 
Sanctified with sacred blood. 
Lead us, like the lambs of Him, 
In whose light the planets swim, 
Nearer to the heavenly rest. 
On our Father's faithful breast. 



86 OUR SOULS LEAP OVER THE YEARS. 



OUR Souls leap over the years, 
And we measure them not by days, 
We count by the tears, by the hopes and fears, 
That flicker in Life's highways. 

We count by the throbs of the bounding heart, 

By its beautiful budding dreams, 
By the joys that start as its buds uupart, 

And deluge our heart like streams. 

Wc count by the smothered sobs that rise 
To the breast like the blight on flowers, 

By the soul's low sighs, and the sad good-byes, 
And the sound of the Autumn showers — 

By the sound of the pattering drops that fall 
On the heart when its leaves are sere, 

By the robin's call, when his roses all 
Are asleep with the dead old year. 

We count by the roses sweet. 

That withered and dropped from our hold. 
And above the sleet, by the Angel feet, 

That walk in the streets of gold. 



OUR SOULS LEAP OVER THE YEARS. 87 

Wc count by the beautiful hands that pressed 

The sweet to the cujd of gall, 
By the gentle breast, with its saintly rest, 

Where the sifting snow-flakes fiill — 

By the loved on whom the snow 

Is falling in crystal flakes, 
By the plaintive flow of the anthem low. 

That the heart breathes when it breaks — 

By the hills we have heaped so high, 

Of passion, of hate, and of scorn, 
To the tinted sky, as the Angels sigh 

For the sin of the earthly born. 

We count by the days misspent. 

By the good which we might have done, 

By the lute-strings bent, and the songs unlent, 
That we clasped to our hearts for one — 

By the beautiful golden strings 

Of the glittering harp, whose tune 

An echo brings o'er the folded wings 
Of the birds that sang in June — 

Of the Spirit-birds, whose flight 

Was over beyond the stars. 
Whose soft wings white, were dipped in light, 

Whose deeds were the crystal cars, 



88 OUR SOULS LEAP OVER THE YEARS. 

By whose radiant wheels they swept, 

Far over the Earthly strand — 
For the tears we wept, for the loved who stepped 

Across to the Better Land. 

We measure our years by the beat 

Of our fluttering hearts, and wait 
For a blessed seat, with the sainted sweet, 

Who sit by the jasper gate — 

By the trust in the love we press 
To our hearts, like a garment white, 

By the lips which bless, with a mute caress, 
Our own, with a kiss of light — 

By the hands we would clasp again. 
By the loved who will love no more, 

By our souls refrain, while the spirit rain, 
Is flooding the life-cup o'er. 

Our souls leap over the years, 

And we measure them not by days — 

We count by the tears, by the hopes and fears, 
That flicker in Life's highways. 



THINE AT LAST. 89 



mxin at last. 

I FAIN would send thee, dearest, 
One little token-flower, 
But tlie flowers have lost their sweetness, 

And my love has lost its power. 
Oh, tell me there is yet one chord 

Unbroken still the same, 
In thy dear heart, that answereth, 

Though faintly, to my name, 
And I will give the wooing air, 

And loving breeze, a tone. 
And when they kiss thy golden hair, 

It is my lips, mine own. 

Oh, dearest, come to me ! 
The blessed angels see 
Bly yearning heart o'erleap 
Its doubts and shadows deep. 
And nestle down by thee. 
Come in the silent night, 
With thy sweet soul so white. 

And say to mine, 
Life is not life nor light. 
My heart has no delight, 

Unshared with thine. 
8* 



90 



ALLIE GREY. 



The little snowdrops cling 

In silence to the stem, 
An offerino; I bring: 

Thy gentle heart of them. 
The snow is dropping, Love, 

In pure and pearly flakes, 
My weary heart above, 

Oh, Grod ! it breaks, it breaks ! 

I live, I live, I wake. 
The snow is melting fast. 

For thy dear smile's sweet sake, 
And I am thine at last. 



THE snow was white around the home 
Of gentle Allie Grey, 
And she, upon her little bed 
In silent sorrow lay ; 

The mother sat beside her child, 
And kissed her chilly cheek, 

But oh, she was so still and cold. 
She scarce could smile, or speak. 



ALLIE GREY. 91 

The angels came from Paradise 

And told sweet Allie Grey, 
That neither storm, nor snow, nor ice, 

Beyond the Earth-land lay. 

And Allie whispered very low, 

0, tell me, mother sweet. 
And will the angels give me shoes 

To warm my little feet? 

And can I sit the whole day long 

Beside the fire, at play ? 
They said it was a sunny land 

In Heaven, so fiir away. 

And shall I gather violets 

Beneath the warming sky? 
But I will shut my eyes, mamma, 

And try to sleep and die. 

And then the Angels came again, 

With songs so soft and low, 
And took her up beyond the land 

Of chilly winds and snow. 



92 THE SWISS PEASANT WOMAN'S OFFERING 

U the ^anitiiriT Jfiiir.* 

IT is'nt much, Herr Consul, tliat I have brought 
to-day, 
But you're welcome to the little, as to the flowers 

of May; 
There is'nt much upon the Alps except the pines 

and flowers. 
The sunshine and the sparkling dew, and all the 
singing showers; 

■^ Of all the gifts received for this Fair, perhaps the 
most touching is that given by an Alpine peasant woman 
in Zurich, Switzerland — a tiny book of pressed Alpine 
flowers, together with a simple wooden wine -cup that 
formerly belonged to her son, now a soldier in the Union 
Army, On presenting the cup and the little book of 
floAvers, the good old woman took a bottle of red Switzer 
wine from her pocket, and filling the cup, handed it to 
the Consul, and then drank herself, snying : — " There's 
a health and a greeting to America ; God bless my boy's 
new Fatherland." "God bless it," replied the Consul, 
"and Switzerland too." The old woman thanked him 
with tears in her eyes, and went away, leaving her boy's 
cup and the Alpine blossoms behind her. 

An American lady, residing in Zurich, being at the 
rooms of the American Consulate, when the poor woman 
came trembling in with her gift, wrote the following 
impromptu lines for the donor, and placed them in the 
cup. — New York Tribune. 



TO THE SANITARY FAIR. 93 

But I couldn't catch tlie sunshine, nor bottle up 

the dew, 
And the pine nuts of the Alpine hills are not for 

such as you; 
And so I brought the blossoms that bloom upon 

the hills, 
And open on the sunny banks beside the glacier rills; 
If you think them worth the sending, I shall indeed 

be glad. 
There may be one who'll buy them — perhaps a 

Switzer lad. 
My boy is in America, you may have seen him 

there. 
You'd know him by his mountain tone, and by his 

golden hair ; 
His voice was like an Alpine horn, so clear its 

crystal notes, 
'T was like the music of a song to hear him call his 

goats ; 
The boy was gentle as a kid, and yet as full of fire, 
And dauntless, as that royal bird, the Alpine lam- 

meryeir ; — 
It is'nt much, Herr Consul, that such as I can bring, 
But here is Hiery's wine-cup — a little simple 

thing — 
A Switzer wine-cup fragrant still with all the sweet 

perfumes 
Of violets, and forget-me-nots, and choicest Alpine 

blooms ; 



94 JACK AND JIM, COMRADES, WHO FELL 

So take the cup, Herr Consul, and take the Alpine 

flowers, 
For they may mind some Switzer lad of happy 

by-gone hours. 
Fill up the little Switzer cup with sparkling Switzer 

wie; * 
A high health to America, the Country of the 

Free ! 



Jitdi and Jim, fflomi;a(lcs, lulio fell at tlie 
iaftti; ojf 4crt 4tfilin[. 

I KNOW not what's the matter. Jack, 
but all the livelong day 
I've thought about the meadow brook, 

by which we used to play 3 
I've seemed to hear its singing sound, 

and see the pebbles gleam, 
As if the very stars of heaven 
were shining from the stream. 

I never noticed how they shone, 

until one May-day morn. 
When you and I were sowing in 

the widow Johnson's corn. 

* << TF/e" — the Swiss peasant word for wine. 



AT THE BATTLE OP FORT FISHER. 95 

0, Jack ! if you could know my heart, 

you wouldn't think me weak, 
Not even though the blinding tears 

are falling as I speak. 

As we were planting there the corn 

that morning in the May, 
Perhaps you don't remember it, 

but Mary came that way; 
She waded right across the brook, 

with feet as bare as ours. 
And ever since, the pebbles shine, 

and gems are on the flowers ! 

I wished I were the butter- cup 

she crushed beneath her feet — 
You may not like the fancy. Jack, 

and yet it seems so sweet. 
O, Jack ! she came along that way, 

and yet I dared not look 
To see her standing on the bank, 

and smiling in the brook, 

Bear with me yet a little while, 

though foolish it may seem. 
To you who never loved her. Jack, 

or kissed her in your dream. 



96 JACK AND JIM, COMRADES, WHO FELL 

I think the love was given to me 

when God he gave me life, 
For when not more than four years old, 

I played she was my wife. 



'Twas I who made the little sled 

whereon she loved to slide, 
And the wagon, from a raisin box, 

in which she used to ride — 
The box I had of Nathan Jones, 

who kept the village store, 
And I whittled out the little wheels, 

Indeed, 'twas quite a chore. 

The fellows all are fast asleep, 

and you mustn't keep awake, 
For the battle of to-morrow 

begins with morning's break; 
'T was wrong of me to talk to you 

so long into the night. 
But we may never meet again 

after the morrow's fight. 

If there's any word you want to send, 

'twere better not to wait. 
For if you should'nt speak to night, 

it might then be too late. 



AT THE BATTLE OF FORT FISHER. 97 

What sliall I tell tlie folks at home, 

if you, dear boy, should die ? 
0, Jack ! I never dreamed that aught 

could sever you and I. 

We're nearer now, by far, dear Jim, 

than even you suppose; 
We've shared each other's joys in life, 

and felt each other's woes — 
I cannot talk; but here's a note 

I finished as you came, 
Take it, and give it, if I fall, 

within, you'll find the name. 



Sweet Mary Gray, the psalm to-day 

must other voices sing, 
For all the song within your soul 

is out upon the wing ; 
It is as if the winds of heaven 

had wafted every tone 
Up to the sainted listeners, 

beside the Golden Throne. 

Why press your hands upon your heart 

with lowly bended head ? 
They hide away from glare of day 

a letter, stained with red. 
9 



98 JACK AND JIM, COMRADES, ETC. 

O, Mary Gray, you can but pray, 
and He who feeds the bird, 

Will give you calm, and send you balm, 
as written in His Word. 



0, Jack and Jim ! ye never thought 

to lie together there, 
Within the dear old meeting-house 

with roses in your hair — 
With blossoms on your bosoms, 

and the old Flag over each. 
And Elder Mills within the desk, 

sobbing too much to preach. 

Alas, poor boys! ye both have dreamed 

of standing there one day. 
With roses, and with orange-flowers, 

and with sweet Mary Gray. 
0, Jim ! a blessed thing for you, 

this sleep, without a dream — 
God's ways are always merciful 

however hard they seem. 

It matters little now, dear Jack, 

that gentle Mary Gray 
Has smoothed your clustering golden curls, 

and kissed your cheek to-day; 



GOOD FRIDAY. 99 

'T is all the same to you in heaven, 

and may be too, to Jim — 
God comforts those, sweet Mary Gray, 

who put their trust in Him. 



AT THE ISLE OF UFNAU.* 

SILENCE, and hush profound 
Brood in the air around, 

The Saviour sleeps. 
Even the bird's sweet notes 
Are hushed within their throats. 

And the soft south wind keeps 

Among the hills, and weeps. 
The still and fragrant air 
Is eloquent with prayer. 

The Saviour sleeps. 

* Written at tlie Isle of Ufnaa in Lake Zurich, Swit- 
zerland. This beautiful island, which contains one dwell- 
ing-house, and three churches, is distinguished as being 
the death and burial-place of Ulrich Van Hutten, the first 
singer of German Liberty. The Monks of Einsiedeln, 
who are the proprietors of the island, hold services in 
its churches during the season of Lent. 



100 THE DEAD BOY. 

0, little ones and weak ! 
Let the sweet stillness speak 

Of sweetest calm — 
Sweeter than timbrel's tone, 
Or harp's melodious moan. 

Or murmuring psalm. 
Watch, and in silence pray, 
They will not come to-day 
And roll the stone away — 

The Saviour sleeps. 



I LOOK along the floor — 
I see a precious store 
Of tiny, half-worn toys, 
Such as all little boys 
So love to treasure up — 
Here is his silver cup, 
And here, a ragged book — 
Blinded by tears I look ! 
The cup is standing still 
Upon the window sill, 
Just as he placed it there, 
After his evening prayer — 
Before he went to bed, 

And laid him down to sleep. 



THE DEAD BOY. lOl 

" Motlier," the darling said. 



"Will God the kitten keep 
And watch it in the night, 
If it be good and mild, 
Just like a pleasant child, 
And does'nt scratch nor bite ?" 
Alas, the kitten plays 
Along the garden ways. 
But all alone to-day. 
And I must put away 
Each little blessed toy, 
Because my angel boy 
Will want them nevermore; 
For all his plays are o'er. 
How can I lay aside 

The bell he loved to ring? 
Must these knots be untied 

In every dangling string ? 
There are his little shoes 

Beneath his cherished chair, 
He never more may loose 

One of the precious pair; 
They are too worn to use. 

But who on earth will care ? 
Are they not dearer still, 

Now that his little feet 
Have climbed the heavenly hill, 

And walked the golden street? 



102 THE TWIN BABY SLEEPERS. 



LYING- 'neath the golden gleaming 
Of tlie blessed evening star, 
Little sleepers! ye are seeming 
With its glory softly teeming, 
Beaming through your gentle dreaming 
From the beautiful afar; 
Softly sleeping, 
In the keeping 
Of the angels from afar. 

Those dear little hands are holding 
In a clasping, close enfolding. 
One another's tiny palms, 
Breathing, blest, embodied psalms ! 

How completely, 

And how sweetly 
Love is locked in your still arms ! 

Mother of the little sleepers ! 

Looking upward through the dark, 
Know there are no weary weepers 

Up beyond the singing lark. 

* Children of a beautiful young mother, who is a 
widow. 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 103 

The Supernal 

One, Eternal, 
Is tlie Helmsman of Life's barque, 

Kindly guiding 

Its still gliding, 
And its tossing, in the dark. 



''|t miDht IxRVt Urn/' 

I WOULD have asked one thing, love. 
One dearest thing of thee — 
That the name you gave another 
You had only given to me. 

Yet, in the fair hereafter, 

It will be all the same — 
I shall love to hear the Angels 

Calling my Angel name. 

For I know the magic music 
Of thy name will then be mine. 

And my heart will beat the time, love. 
To the melody of thine. 



104 SONG or THE RHINE. 



I HEAR the ripple of the Ehine, 
Under the stars, at the day's decline, 
And to my heart when night is still, 
Its music brings a magic thrill. 

The linden leaves are leaning low, 
The blushing roses faintly blow, 
And royally around the llhine, 
Cluster Maria's hopes, and mine. 



She hears with me its ripple low, 
And wonders if our lives will glide 

In half so musical a flow, 
Together, by its singing side. 

0, God! I shiver with afright, 

My star of life has ceased to shine; 

A shadow swims around the night ! 
And — it is raiiiing in the Rhine. 



LET THE ANGELS BE MY GUIDE. 105 

let th^ %n^tb be mg (Sitidif. 

S I kneel before the throne, 



k 



Speaking in the softest tone, 
Only unto God alone, 
Floods of crimson swiftly roll 
Over face, and heart, and soul, 
Into being sweetly stirred 
By the music of a word, 
Lightly murmured though it be. 
Father ! only unto Thee. 

Jesus — whisper I, and weep — 
There is one across the deep ', 
Send him angels in his sleep, 
" Watch and ward o'er him to keep.'' 
There is something yet beside, 
(With the angels as a guide,) 
I would ask thee if I may — 
Something else for which I pray; 
Let the angels be my guide. 

There is one across the deep, 
Moaning in his weary sleep ; 
May I go, with a noiseless tread — 
Sit in dreams beside his bed — 



106 LET THE ANGELS BE MY GUIDE. 

Lay within his fevered palm 
Cooling hands with touch of balm, 
Wooing quietude and calm. 
Little matter if he knows 
Whence the healing influence flows, 
Lulling him to soft repose. 

Yet, alas ! whene'er I go, 
It would still be sweet to know 
That he felt my presence round him, 
Knew whose loving arms enwound him, 
And whose eyes and heart were waking ; 
Whose poor heart was almost breaking 
AVith its anguished love and fears — 
Thus I fall asleep in tears; 
Thus I dream away the years. 




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